


The Tolls of Peacetime

by Huehxolotl



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Angst, M'naago is the best wingwoman, Post-Stormblood, brief mutual pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 12:35:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14671233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huehxolotl/pseuds/Huehxolotl
Summary: Lyse has a lot on her plate after the victory at Ala Mhigo, and she's trying her best to be strong, to push through the stress, trauma, and grief by herself.Y'shtola just wants her to know that she doesn't have to.





	The Tolls of Peacetime

**Author's Note:**

> Because there aren't enough fics for Lyse or enough for Y'shtola, and definitely not enough for Lyse/Y'shtola. A quick work, so please forgive any errors.

**-1-**

 

_ "I still catch myself wondering, what would Father do? What would Yda say? Why am I not like them? And I end up making myself depressed." _

 

A single moon after the meeting in Limsa finds Y’shtola in Rhalgr’s Reach with packages in hand. There is a hum of voices and chocobo chirps, soldiers and civilians alike rushing about with their business. There are even merchants that have taken up residence near the Barber, and someone in what looks to be an Ironworks uniform is arguing fiercely with a group of them.

 

Resistance members nod at her as she makes her way to the commander's tent, either because they remember her from before the Imperial ambush, or because they recognize her Archon mark. Though she tries to avoid it, her eyes linger on the spot where Zenos had attempted to kill Lyse, and had nearly killed  _ her _ .

 

The overly large commander’s tent is, unfortunately, occupied only by M’naago, who points up when she sees her.

 

“Haven’t seen her in a bell or two. She likes to hang around up there after bad meetings.”

 

Giving her thanks, she takes a small detour to drop off the larger box -containing various treats from Tataru- that she is carrying in Lyse’s small room. The path that will bring her high above the Reach is steep and winding, and she has no interest in climbing it with cumbersome burdens. By the time she makes it to the hand, darkness has already claimed the eastern sky, but the view of the land is breathtaking when lit by the setting sun.

 

“For as busy as you claim to be, I'm surprised you have time to wallow in such a remote location,” she says in lieu of a proper greeting.

 

Lyse, who had been sitting near the fingers and staring out past the Reach, jumps to her feet in surprise. Rushing over to greet her, she fills the space between them with a barrage of questions. “Y’shtola! What are you doing here? You climbed all the way up here? Are you healed enough to do that? Did something happen? ...Is that food?”

 

Accepting the flurry of questions patiently, she hands her friend the bag that does, indeed, contain several snacks. It is taken and held to Lyse's chest like a precious child or treasure. Tataru’s other snacks are a boon, if her friend has spent untold hours thinking herself into depression.

 

“M’naago implied something had gone wrong at today’s meeting,” she says, curious and concerned. Establishing a new government in a recently liberated land is no easy task, and she knows that Lyse is reluctant to share her troubles with...anyone, truthfully.

 

Lyse immediately looks away, shoulders slumping as the weight of her struggles return. It reminds her of the first moons after they were introduced, after Yda’s death, when the masked Lyse would often watch the sunset alone with a similarly burdened posture. “Wrong? Gods above,  _ everything  _ went wrong. I was so tired, and I didn’t want to deal with them all today, and they just wouldn’t  _ listen  _ to each other. I just. Couldn’t.”

 

Her friend trails off, and she doesn’t hesitate to pull her into a tight hug, resting her head on her shoulder. Lyse has always been more receptive to physical comfort, even something as simple as a hand on her shoulder, but she suspects that a hug is more appropriate today. However sparing she generally is with physical affection, Lyse isn’t  _ just  _ another person; she is a dear friend and someone who deserves far more happiness than the world has seen fit to give her.

 

“I yelled at them,” Lyse continues after leaning into her and wrapping an arm around her waist, careful not to harm the food. “Called them all stubborn old idiots who only cared about themselves like stupid monetarists.”

 

“Oh Lyse,” she says, voice muffled against the fabric of Lyse’s vest.

 

“That was a...polite paraphrasing. It was a long rant, and I kind of told them to grow up and stormed out. Or something like that. I can barely remember, I was so angry.” Lyse sniffles miserably, arm tightening around her. “Gods, I'm the worst. Yda is probably judging me from the Great Beyond, for screwing up so badly on her nameday.”

 

Sighing, she pulls away from the embrace and rests a hand on Lyse’s cheek, forcing her to meet her gaze. “Enough of that. Yda would have been proud of you, regardless. I'm certain the council deserved a good scolding, if not a hit or two. Politicians of any sort often do,” she finishes lightly.

 

Lyse closes her eyes and groans, “You’re terrible, Y’shtola. Right, but terrible.”

 

“If you’re looking for someone to berate you for giving those “stubborn old idiots” what they deserve, then I’m afraid you shall have to walk back down to the Reach and speak to M’naago.”

 

Her friend does nothing more than hum, content to bask in the comfort she is being given. Now that she has a chance to observe Lyse up close, she takes note of her exhausted and haggard appearance. There are the beginnings of dark circles under her eyes, and new furrows in her brow that not even the presence of a friend can ease. 

 

The aftermath of the war is taking more of a toll on Lyse than the actual war had, and she knows that at least half of that stress stems from Lyse’s severe self esteem issues. It’s frustrating, to watch her friend measure herself against the everpresent shadows of her father and sister. Shadows that, in her mind, can barely begin to compare to Lyse's light.

 

A hand reaches up to grab her own. “I know you didn’t come running to Rhalgr’s Reach just because I had a bad day, Y’shtola. Not that I don’t appreciate your presence!” Lyse insists immediately. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind having you around  _ every  _ day, but, uh. Yeah. You know what I mean.”

 

She tries not to smile, truly, but Lyse is so awkward that she cannot help herself. “Papalymo mentioned once that today is Yda’s nameday. It did not take much effort to discern that he meant your sister, rather than your own.”

 

“Right. Because you all knew. Now I feel even worse.”

 

Goodness, but her friend is determined to be depressed today. “Yes, we were fully aware of your identity. As such, for every moment of the last several years, for every meal and every battle, for every victory and every sacrifice, you were, to us,  _ Lyse _ .”

 

The range of emotions that play across Lyse’s face as she finally understands what she means to the Scions are interesting to watch. Surprise, thoughtfulness, happiness, pain, then something soft that makes her heart beat a pace faster. Lyse, still holding her hand, intertwines their fingers and leans down to rest her forehead against hers, which does nothing at all for her heartbeat gods above.

 

“If it’s all the same, I would rather never see you get hurt for me again,” she whispers pleadingly.

 

They are too  _ close _ . Her pulse races, her throat is dry, and she is unbearably aware of Lyse’s breath ghosting across her lips. Never has she been this close to her. She had oft wondered, over the course of the six years that Lyse worked with the Scions, what she truly looked like. There had been brief, fleeting moments where she wanted to tug that mask away, wanted to  _ see  _ her friend and comrade.

 

Had she known it would have this effect on her, she might have thought twice about such desires.

 

After a moment of struggling, she manages a fairly coherent, “And I would not hesitate to do so again. We shall remain at an impasse.”

 

Lyse pouts, and she suddenly, fervently wishes that there is a mask between her and that dangerous look. She has a sinking feeling that there is  _ nothing  _ she would deny her friend if she were faced with that expression.

 

Praying that she hasn’t spent too long gazing into Lyse’s eyes, she clears her throat and says, “Now if you are done wallowing, Tataru has sent over presents. I left them in your room.”

 

Letting herself be dragged away by the suddenly energetic Lyse, she stares at their still entwined hands and comes to the dreadful conclusion that she may have a slight...problem.

 

**-2-**

 

“Things are calm for the moment, if it eases your mind,” she says with a sigh.

 

Mhitra is unamused. “Until the next time you are almost killed.”

 

She sighs again. Her latest brush with death has not yet been forgotten by her sister. Not that she wants it to be forgotten, necessarily, but what point is there in bringing it up so often after the fact? There is no changing what happened, and no words that will make her any less willing to put herself in danger if necessary for Eorzea or her comrades.

 

“And no prospective partners at all?”

 

She doesn’t glare at her sister, but she  _ highly _ considers it as she vainly tries not to picture Lyse, smiling at her as if no one else exists in the world, close enough to kiss. As if she doesn’t relive that moment enough in her dreams. “We can return to the topic of my near death experiences,” she says stiffly.

 

“Shtola, I’m  _ worried _ -”

 

“Y’shtola!”

 

Mhitra is interrupted by a shout from a familiar voice, one that she is surprised and gratified to hear, and not solely because it saves her from yet another lecture. Turning, her eyes easily find Lyse, who is jogging toward them with several packages in her hands.

 

“Hi! I can’t believe I ran into you. Talk about coincidence! What are you doing here? Oh, wait. Am I interrupting? I’m sorry. I just wanted to say hi and-”

 

“Lyse,” she says fondly, cutting off her friend before her rambling turns into unknown directions. Her hands itch to touch her, hold her in some manner, a desire she barely manages to contain by crossing her arms and leaning her weight ever so subtly away from the object of her affection. “I ought to be asking you the same question. Were you not busy with another round of meetings?”

 

Lyse fidgets and shrugs. Her last blowup had not resulted in any dire consequence. In fact, as she later told it, Raubahn had spent half a bell laughing about it when she went to apologize to him the next day. Among any other city-state, such behavior would have had far more severe consequences, but Ala Mhigans are a stubborn breed well used to explosive attitudes, and Lyse’s words, whatever they had been, shamed them into behaving for a time.

 

She dearly wishes that Lyse isn’t so embarrassed about the incident, because she would love to know what  _ exactly _ she said to the men and women of the council. Brash and impulsive Lyse may be, but she has a habit of accidentally pointing out uncomfortably accurate character flaws in others.

 

“We got a lot done the last few days, thanks to a surprise find in the records library. Everything is running smoother, now that we’re aiming for short term goals. Raubahn let us all have the rest of the sennight to take care of things in our provinces, and I took the chance to pick up some orders for M’naago. I haven’t been back to the Shroud since…” Lyse frowns, voice trailing off.

 

Since she crossed the wall where Papalymo gave his life, to fight for the country that her father gave his life for, alongside the countrymen that her sister gave her life for.

 

Lyse clears her throat awkwardly. “Yeah. I thought I’d get some treats while I was here. They gave me extra because I bought so much, then the shop owner recognized me and insisted I try out some of her new experiments, and I really just wanted a few but it somehow got out of hand.”

 

Taking note of the box overflowing with rows of bakery bags, she thinks that “out of hand” is certainly an apt description, and very nearly a literal one.

 

“Do you, uh, want some? I don’t even know what’s all in there,” Lyse asks, gaze shifting to Mhitra nervously.

 

Ah, right. Where have her manners gone? “This is my sister, Y’mhitra,” she introduces.

 

“Wow!” Lyse exclaims before she can finish the introductions. “Your sister? I should have guessed. You’re really pretty too. I’m Lyse Hext. It’s nice to meet you!”

 

Really pretty  _ too _ . The innocuous declaration embarrasses her into silence as the other two talk. Mhitra has not been terribly impressed by her association with the Scions due to the danger she often finds herself in the middle of, but Lyse has a disarming personality, and comes bearing free pastries.

 

For a brief time, she thinks that her visit has been salvaged by Lyse’s timely arrival, but stubbornness runs in their family.

 

“Do you, too, have a bad habit of putting yourself in danger?” Mhitra asks when they explain that Lyse was a Scion for many years. She is not disapproving, as she was earlier. There is a resigned smile on her lips, and a touch of curiosity about the seemingly harmless woman who does not bear the mark of an Archon, yet worked with the Scions.

 

Lyse laughs sheepishly, gaze settling on her. It’s subtle, but something dark flashes across her face, leaving a grimace in its wake. “I’m sorry,” she says voice heavy with regret and despair. The box dents from the force with which she grips it. “Y’shtola was hurt because she was protecting  _ me _ . I couldn’t do a damn thing but watch. Again.”

 

She wants to reassure her, wants to switch the topic, but Lyse abruptly repeats her apology for interrupting them and hurries off, posture defeated and weary. It feels wrong, to let her leave. That look on her face...

 

“Are you going to go after her, or just stand there worrying, Shtola?”

 

Ears twitching, she nods absently, too caught up in her concern to spare a glance at her sister. “I. Yes, pray excuse me.”

 

Even when burdened with several boxes, Lyse is inordinately fast. Had she taken her eyes off of her at any point, she would have lost her in the crowd. To her frustration, she does so anyway, somewhere along the pathway into New Gridania. The city is unfortunately surrounded by the forest, and she can only assume that Lyse has disappeared into the trees. Tracking may be a skill her kind is renowned for, but her own abilities in that area are woefully deficient.

 

“There is an animal path less than half a malm back. It leads to a small clearing with a river, I believe.”

 

The Elder Seedseer’s voice catches her by surprise, so focused on determining which direction Lyse has most likely fled that she hadn’t noticed her proximity to the Lotus Stand. Has Kan-E-Senna come out specifically to speak to her?

 

“The Elementals are partial to her,” is the only explanation she is given.

 

Thanking the woman, who smiles at her sympathetically, she retraces her steps, easily locating the path in question now that she aware of what to look for. It doesn’t take long to reach the end of the path, where Lyse has indeed taken refuge. The sight of her friend curled up against a boulder causes her to frown, but it’s the sounds of stifled crying that twists her heart. Rushing to her side, she ignores Lyse’s surprise, ignores her protests, and sits next to her, pulling her into her lap and wrapping her arms around her tightly.

 

“I’m fine. I. I’m fine. I just. Gods I’m sorry.  _ I’m sorry _ .” Lyse’s gasping apologies tear at her. It angers her that, even at her worst, her friend does not want to burden others with her emotions. Why can’t she be a little more selfish with her need for comfort? 

 

“Never apologize for your grief,” she says fiercely. “I’m right here, Lyse. I won’t leave you.”

 

Lacking in eloquence her assurance may be, but it is enough for Lyse to sink into her hold, trembling. It’s terrible, the breakdown, yet quiet. There is no loud wailing, no gut wrenching sobbing, only soft gasps and pitiful whining when her emotions become too much to physically handle, only the increasing dampness of her neck and shoulder proof that Lyse is even crying at all.

 

For six years she held herself at arms length, desperate to keep the secret they had all already known. Six years that saw her become closer to them, dearer to them than Yda had ever been, yet still worry that she would never be  _ good  _ enough. Does the title of commander weigh on her soul the way Yda’s name had? Is it yet another burden she has taken willingly, but doesn’t feel worthy of? How had she not seen it before? There had been no time to properly grieve Papalymo. No time to grieve the comrades lost in the Reach. No time to grieve Conrad. Lyse just kept working and working, trying to live up to the legacy of her predecessors.

 

“Why me?” Lyse whimpers, voice hoarse and weak. Her grip is bruisingly tight, but she hardly notices. “Why, out of everyone else, was it  _ me  _ who lived? Out of all our comrades, all my family. They were all amazing and strong and  _ necessary _ and I’m just.” She growls from frustration, from anger, from desperation, and a million other emotions that she cannot give voice to, all born from her feelings of inadequacy.

 

“Lyse, no,” she demands, no, begs. She will not allow Lyse to believe that she isn’t worth saving, isn’t worth friendship, isn’t worth loving. “Listen to me.  _ You _ are amazing.  _ You  _ are strong.  _ You  _ are necessary. You have faced loss, faced unimaginable odds, and you fought where others would have given up. You  _ triumphed  _ where countless others failed. Don’t you ever claim that you do not deserve all that you have rightfully earned and suffered for; that you do not  _ deserve _ to live, Lyse. Eorzea is a better place, for your presence.”

 

“But-”

 

“But nothing. It is the truth, nay, it is an  _ understatement _ .”

 

“Y’shtola…” Lyse trails off, never having been one to take true compliments well. Wisely, she chooses to rest in her arms peacefully instead of arguing, sniffling every so often as her tears slow but do not cease. Perhaps, for once, she is mulling over the compliments, rather than all the ways she believes she is deficient.

 

There’s no telling how long they stay there, but eventually her legs go numb and Lyse starts to shiver. Ushering her friend up, they stumble together, emotionally and physically exhausted, into the city. They’re surprised when Mhitra meets them at the beginning of the path and orders them to her house, but she promises hot soup, and neither of them can find it in themselves to deny  _ that _ .

 

After a quiet dinner, when Lyse is safely tucked away in the guest bedroom, Mhitra serves her tea and pastries in silence, letting her muse over the day's excitement. “Will she be alright?” her sister asks after settling down.

 

Drinking her tea, she ponders the question. The breakdown had been due to happen, and grief is never so simple an issue. This was only the first step in the long road to recovery, but she has faith her friend will pull through.

 

“In time. There is much trauma that she has to work through, but I’ll not leave her to do so alone.”

 

Mhitra hums. There's a thoughtful look on her face as she gently swirls her tea. “I believe that you won't. As such, I'm sure you won't mind sharing a bed with her for the night.”

 

She freezes at the strange turn in conversation. “What?”

 

“I've only one guest bedroom, sister, and I don't imagine your friend will be entirely comfortable if she wakes without a familiar face present.”

 

“...Oh. Yes, I...suppose.” In spite of her internal panic at the idea of sleeping with Lyse, she is not so lost in her thoughts to miss the smirk on Mhitra’s lips that is quickly hidden when she takes a sip of her tea.

 

_ This is...unfortunate. _

 

**-3-**

 

“We have agreements with…”

 

_ Smoke. Fire. _

 

“...If we reroute the…”

 

_ Blood. Screaming. _

 

“That will delay…”

 

_ Fight! Save them! _

 

“Who cares about the…”

 

_ Death. So much death. _

 

“Of course it’s necessary you stubborn old…”

 

_ “Lyse, run!” _

 

“Lyse!”

 

She yelps and jumps. There is a loud thump as her leg connects with the table, and all other conversation stops. Heart racing from the traces of the nightmares and the adrenaline of being startled awake, she shakes her head slowly, willing the world to come into focus.

 

“...Ow,” she whispers pitifully.

 

“Uh, you alright there, lass?”

 

“...Where am I, again?”

 

There are a few sighs, but she barely registers them. She’s exhausted. Between learning how to keep Rhalgr’s Reach running smoothly and attending the meetings in Ala Mhigo, she barely has time to breath. Then there’s the host of unexpected problems that come with being in charge; none of which she has really been trained for either.

 

She isn’t regretting her choices in life, or the responsibility she has taken, but it’s stress that isn’t made easier by her recent lack of sleep. Not that she was getting much sleep before, but lately her days and nights are largely blurred together in her memory. If she hadn’t had M’naago there to remind her of the meeting today, she's sure she would have tried crawling into bed and sleeping for the whole day after dealing with some quarreling merchants this morning.

 

“Do you have your notes on the Gridanian agreements?”

 

Grunting, she shakes her aching leg and digs through her pile of papers. The meeting table sure is solid. She can already feel the bruise forming on her poor knee. “Gridania… Gridania. Ah. Here they are. We got word back from the merchants yesterday. ...The day before? What day is it? Anyway.”

 

The meeting finishes without any other interruptions, and she is mildly proud of herself for managing to stay awake. There have been less fights since her blow up, but that doesn’t mean  _ everything  _ has been solved. People are still people, after all, and not even Raubahn can please everyone.

 

“Lyse,” Raubahn calls before she can move very far, motioning for her to sit again. “Have you been sleeping?”

 

She plops back into her chair and stares at him blankly. Raganfrid, who has opted to stay behind as well, is watching her with his arms crossed, and she feels vaguely cornered. She opens her mouth to answer-

 

“Don’t lie to me, lass.”

 

-and shuts it again with a huff.

 

He sighs and relaxes his posture to be as unthreatening as possible. Carefully, he says, “You’ve been through a war. There is no shame in-”

 

“Suffering from nightmares, flinching at loud noises, and having terrible flashbacks? Having mild panic attacks triggered by a stray word or noise?” She scowls and rests her arms on the table, leaning her weight against them. There’s no point in pretending that she isn’t having a few issues dealing with the aftermath of war. As the leader of a Grand Company, and someone who survived the Calamity, Raubahn surely knows the signs of trauma, and she is too  _ tired  _ to argue. Or think. When was the last time she slept properly? She can’t even remember.

 

“I know that. I’ve been through it before, you know. I’m dealing with it. Sort of. It’s nothing, really. It’s just” -she gives him a despairing look- “do you know how much _trouble_ merchants are? I spent four bells dealing with some arguing merchants last night, in the _middle of the night_ , because apparently the argument couldn’t wait until morning. And it was about a vase. Of all things! And the other day, or at some point recently because I honestly can’t tell my days apart, some other merchants tried to blame each other on fixing the market. I spent bells trying to first figure out what that means and how that’s even possible, and then figuring out how to shut them up because they were just making it up to cover for the true argument, which was something about their kids getting married in Ul’dah. And that was a whole _other_ problem. Then there was an issue with the spirits in the Temple. None of the soldiers or adventurers would go near it after the first two groups came limping back, so I went in with Arenvald and took care of them. It’s been relentless this sennight! Like they all decided to bother me at once! I’m doing my best to learn to lead the Reach on my own, but if I have to hear another pointless argument about someone copying _sheet patterns_ I will personally throw them off the Destroyer’s hand!”

 

Growling in exasperation, she drops her head into her arms and tries to catch her breath. Ranting like that is tiring when she doesn’t have energy. It feels good to vent, though. She has a certain image to uphold with the soldiers and people of the Reach, and all her other friends are off doing their own work. She doesn’t need to be bothering them with her petty troubles. Not after her last terrible breakdown. Gods.

 

Granted, she should technically be  _ more  _ composed when dealing with Raubahn and the council, but she’s already yelled at them once. What’s one more time? It’s just the three of them anyway.

 

Raganfrid laughs. “Well...that would discourage others from bothering you with nonsense like sheet patterns!”

 

Raubahn is slightly more sympathetic, dropping a heavy hand on her shoulder and giving it a comforting squeeze. “You need to make a line and stand firm behind it. Damned merchants will push you to the limit, just to see if they can. Animals are more civilized, at times.”

 

She can’t help but smile. “Tell us how you really feel, Raubahn.” Sitting up, she sighs and rubs her forehead. “I know I need to assert my authority and all, but I’m green and everyone knows it. They all test me in their own way, even M’naago sometimes. I’m sure it’ll help me in the long run, but right now it’s just…”

 

“Overwhelming,” both men finish for her.

 

Gods, is it shameful to admit it. “I’ll get through it,” she whispers. “One day at a time. I just need some sleep. And food. Mostly sleep though. Who argues about vases at the third bell? Honestly.”

 

She returns to Rhalgr’s Reach after being given more advice, a promise to find her a civilian secretary, and a recipe for some sort of drink to help her sleep. The sun long fallen, there are few milling about to demand her attention, which she is grateful for. Rhalgr must be smiling on her this night, for she makes it to her room without having to speak to a single person.

 

Collapsing into bed, she prays that she is allowed to sleep through the night. Nightmares have been a constant issue since the Feast, an issue that has grown worse with every loss, every catastrophe. The stress of peacetime, as odd as it sounds, made the nightmares more pronounced; or, they did, until her breakdown. Embarrassing as the whole incident is, Y’shtola’s assurances were practically a spell of their own, for how they have bolster her mood whenever she recalls them.

 

Which, unfortunately, leads to a different sort of problem; every time she tries to sleep, she pictures Y’shtola.

 

Y’shtola, sleeping in her arms. Y’shtola, purring - _ purring for Rhalgr’s sake _ \- as she nuzzles the crook of her neck and shoulder. Y’shtola, blurry-eyed and hair mussed from sleep, smiling at her so. So  _ lovingly _ .

 

In her dreams, she doesn’t awkwardly wish her friend a good morning, she doesn’t sheepishly crawl out of bed, she doesn’t want to die from sheer embarrassment over her breakdown as she slinks into the kitchen where Y’mhitra is cooking breakfast. 

 

In her dreams, she kisses Y’shtola gently at first, then hungrily, she pins her to the bed or is sometimes pinned herself, she tangles a hand in her hair, or holds her close, or tugs off her clothes so can drag her mouth over every ilm of skin and-

 

Oh gods.

 

She’d almost rather have the nightmares, instead of this awful obsession with her  _ friend _ . One of her dearest friends. A friend that encouraged her during her breakdown. A friend that promised to support her when the war first ended, and again when she had a chance to see her again, and again when she felt utterly hopeless. A friend that she watched nearly  _ die _ because of her weakness.

 

Her beautiful, amazing, talented friend who she has something of a serious crush on. How had she wound up sharing a bed with Y’shtola, and how can she find a way to do so every day for the rest of her life? She had asked herself that question every day and night since that morning, followed by bells of berating herself for being selfish because Y’shtola deserves so much better than someone who lied to her for years -tried to, anyway- and has serious life issues.

 

And besides, trauma, she can handle, but  _ romance _ ? She’s pretty sure she’s doomed before she can start.

 

**-4-**

 

_ “Did you forget your days again? It's a holiday. You can take a break for once!” _

 

_ “...It's a day to spend with your family. I'm an orphan, remember? And Yda died years ago. I'm happy if I just get to work in peace today. As in,  _ no merchants. _ ” _

 

M’naago has survived a lot of strange situations, mostly thanks to her sisters, but this one has her stumped. She's worried about Lyse, but there doesn't seem to be anything she can do about it. The commander is stubborn about asking for help unless it involves merchant business or soldiering business. “I’ll deal with it,” she always says. Every time she tries to get her to open up about her thoughts, or her nightmares, she gets the same answer; a determined look, a tight, reassuring grin, and those words, “I’ll deal with it.”

 

It’s admirable from a subordinate’s standpoint, but from a friend’s? It’s really frustrating.

 

_ “Hey, you’ve met Y’shtola…” _

 

_ “Yeah? You were the one who introduced her to us.” _

 

_ “...Do you think I stand a chance with her? Or. I mean. Someone  _ like  _ her?” _

 

_ “...Uh. What? That. ...Do you want an honest answer or an encouraging answer?” _

 

_ “I think you just gave me your answer. ...I kind of thought the same thing, anyway.” _

 

She stands before the Scions headquarters and sighs. What is she doing here? She isn't even sure the person she's looking for will be here; isn't even sure if the person she's looking for is  _ really  _ the person she's looking for.

 

But she's just a bit desperate, and even a small chance of finding someone to help Lyse is worth the toll of a couple extra teleportations.

 

“Oh, M’naago? Is there an emergency?”

 

The Rising Stones is mostly empty, F’lahminn’s greeting echoing in the stone room. The lack of people about isn't at all encouraging, and she resigns herself for a quick departure.

 

“Is Y’shtola here?” she asks, glancing around to confirm that her target isn't in the room.

 

F’lahminn tilts her head in assent. “You're in luck. She has not yet left for the day. Would you like me to call her?”

 

Frowning, she shakes her head. “It’s kind of private.”

 

“...I see. Then her room is the third in the second hallway.”

 

Absently thanking her fellow Miqo’te, she trudges to the back of the Rising Stones. Her hopes are mostly dashed; if Y’shtola already has plans, then there is little point in her visit. She doesn't want to give up after coming all this way though. Lyse wouldn't give up, so neither will she.

 

She sighs again and knocks on what she hopes is Y’shtola’s door. Relieved to hear a response, she comes to the sudden realization that she has  _ no idea what to say _ . She hasn’t even thought about how to make her request without sounding like a complete idiot.

 

Y’shtola’s surprised greeting and obvious confusion does nothing for her borderline panic. She half expects to be interrogated right there in the hall when she awkwardly asks to be let in the room, but she is gestured inside with only hint of suspicion.

 

_ Rhalgr but this is awkward. And weird. What am I doing? Breathe. Just breathe and ask. This is for my friend. _

 

“I’m really sorry to bother you,” she starts before Y’shtola has the chance to question her, “but I’m kind of in a bind. I want to help her but I don’t know how because she’s so  _ stubborn _ and won’t tell me what’s wrong and I know this is sudden but can you please visit her or or. Something? Today?”

 

Suspicion. Confusion. Realization. Concern. Y’shtola’s emotions are subtle, except for the last. “You mean Lyse? Has something happened?” she asks, eyes narrowed and ears tilted forward.

 

She has all of the Scion’s attention, and it’s kind of intimidating. 

 

_ Lyse sure knows how to pick ‘em! She’s scary! _

 

Clearing her throat, she nods and says, “Er, yeah. Sorry. And no, it’s nothing  _ serious _ . I mean, it kind of is, because it’s taking a real toll on her. I don’t expect a miracle or anything, but I think it would mean a lot if you went to see her? Maybe?” She covers her face with her hands and groans, tail and ears drooping along with her courage “I know I’m not making sense and it’s out of the blue but-”

 

“Why ask me, specifically?” Y’shtola interrupts. There is a carefully crafted blank expression on her face, but her hands are gripping her elbows a little too tightly, her breathing is too shallow, as if she has to remind herself to breathe, and her tail twitches just the slightest bit.

 

_ Why? Because she’s suddenly hopelessly in love with you and it looks like you’ve got some interest and I’m the world’s worst matchmaker Rhalgr strike me. _

 

Out loud, she says softly, “Because today is a holiday in Gyr Abania. A holiday meant to celebrate family, and she doesn’t have any. Because it would just be rubbing it in, I think, if I invited her to visit my tribe. Because, since the war ended, you have been the  _ only _ person to go out of your way to visit her. I thought that, since you’ve known her so long...”

 

Y’shtola shakes her head and sighs, an expression that resembles frustration on her face. “Unfortunately, she is as reluctant to share her feelings with us as she is with you. However,” she continues at her despairing look, “that does not mean I will deny your request. The twelve only know what sort of depression she is brooding herself into as we speak.”

 

She thanks her eagerly, feeling a heavy weight lift off of her. She isn’t sure if this will help or hurt the Commander, but at least it’s  _ something _ . Lovesickness aside, Lyse was happier after the last two times she saw Y’shtola.

 

“Oh, but, can you please never mention that I asked you to do this? She’ll pout at me and I  _ hate _ it when she does that. It makes me feel like I kicked a bloody baby griffon or, or something small and fluffy.”

 

That earns her a smirk. “Worry not, I hadn’t planned to. I have a perfect excuse for a visit.”

 

**-5-**

 

Deep within the stone walls of Rhalgr’s Reach, Lyse can pretend that it’s just another day. A blessedly peaceful one. No merchants, no meetings, no ghosts.

 

Deep within the stone walls of Rhalgr’s Reach, she can pretend that there isn’t a festival being celebrated around the shores of Starfall.

 

She had made an appearance to help with the decorating, but like she told M’naago, there’s no point celebrating a day specifically for family when she doesn’t have any. She has plenty of other work to keep her occupied, though it isn’t anything urgent. 

 

Choosing paperwork over a festival. Her past self would be horrified. Her  _ current  _ self is horrified. What has she become?

 

There is a knock against the open door and a simultaneous complaint of, “A commander should  _ not  _ be so difficult to locate.”

 

“Y’shtola! What are you doing here!?” She is on her feet in an instant, ready to run over to her friend before she realizes that maybe that is too eager and weird and she stops, wobbling back and forth as she fights with herself. “...Haven’t we had this conversation before?”

 

Her friend - _ friend, dammit _ \- raises an eyebrow before shaking her head and smiling indulgently, and it feels like the first time she has ever seen that expression for how captivated she is by it. Y’shtola should smile more. All the time. Every day. At her. Preferably far closer to her.

 

“Lyse?”

 

Whoops had she been talking?

 

She laughs nervously. “Sorry. What?”

 

Y’shtola scrutinizes her suspiciously. “You’ve not slept.” It isn’t a question, it’s a statement, and a very, very true one.

 

“Why is everyone so concerned about my sleeping habits lately?” she grumbles, posture slumping in disappointment. There are plenty of other, more important things they can talk about, aren’t there? Like food, Ala Mhigo’s progress, what their other friends are doing, why she’s here. “I stayed up late to finish the budget reports before everyone left for the holiday, and I was up early to help with the decorating.”

 

“Decorating for the festival that you aren’t taking part of.”

 

With every statement -accusation- of Y’shtola’s, she feels her excitement drain. Hasn’t she burdened her friend enough with her feelings? Berating her for not sleeping or celebrating can’t be her only reason for visiting, right? How would she have even known those things to begin with?

 

“Oh, come here, Lyse,” Y’shtola sighs when she pouts instead of defending herself.

 

Hesitantly, she obeys. Is she going to offer a hug? She won’t say  _ no  _ to that, but she still doesn't understand what's going on. Maybe she’s dreaming or something. That would explain the strangeness of this whole situation. Though usually her dreams involve a lot less clothing and more touching and-

 

-Nope. Nope. Nope. Not doing this now. She is going to be normal.  _ Not _ obsessed,  _ not _ hyper-focused on Y’shtola holding her hand- _ why is Y’shtola holding her hand and why is she pulling her out of the room?! _

 

“Have you eaten at all?”

 

“Um, I had some fruit?”

 

“How long have you been holed up in the dark like this?”

 

“It’s only been a bell. Maybe. Wait, I’m not “holed up!” I just want to put as much space between me and Rowena’s merchants as possible. They’re more trouble than she is, and that’s saying something.”

 

All it takes is a squeeze of her hand and a curious look before she is spilling the various troubles she’s had with the merchants and others. Nothing too serious, just the day to day squabbles that try her patience. Y’shtola is suitably unimpressed with her tormenters, offering solutions far more enjoyable than simply throwing them into the waters from the Destroyer’s hand, and it’s the happiest she has been in moons.

 

There may be a merchant or two who overhear their joking plans, and they may back away in alarm, and they may just spread the word that she is crazy and murderous.

 

And she may be perfectly fine with that, because she  _ may  _ get some proper respect from them after this.

 

“Y’shtola? Are we going to my room?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Right, okay.” She stares ahead of them blankly. Not that she’s complaining, but, “...Why?”

 

She gets a huff and no other answer, but they’re only a hallway from her room so she resigns herself to fidgeting and  _ not  _ watching every twitch of Y’shtola’s ears, or glaring at the high collar that hides her neck or admiring how well-fitted her clothes are because Tataru is  _ amazing _ or.

 

Rhalgr, she’s hopeless. Totally hopeless. The worst. A terrible friend. She doesn’t deserve to be breathing the same-

 

Being pulled into her room, she freezes. Something is different. New. Heart-wrenching.

 

“Is that?”

 

She would feel less blindsided if she’d been punched in the head by the Warrior of Light themself, only the firm grip on her hand grounding her in reality.

 

Papalymo’s Aurifex, restored, and Yda’s mask displayed in an ornate glass case with the symbols of Sharlayan and Gyr Abania etched on the corners. It’s everything that’s left of her family, proudly displayed on her dresser.

 

“A day for family, is it not?” Y’shtola says, tone gentle.

 

There’s too many emotions to sort through, but in a good way this time. Once she remembers to breathe, remembers how to control her body, she pulls Y’shtola into a desperate hug, muttering “thank you” over and over again through her crying.

 

“You brought him back to me. To. To Yda. They’re. Gods Y’shtola. I can’t believe you-” She can’t even form a complete sentence, only able to stutter nonsense while she grasps at her jacket and holds her close. All this time, she had thought Papalymo’s weapon just as irrevocably lost as her dear friend, but now it’s  _ here  _ and in perfect condition. How many times has that weapon saved her? How many times has it hit her during a joking argument? Papalymo and his Aurifex had supported her when she had no direction, no purpose, pushing her to be  _ more _ , to be herself, and now she is and it’s here with her.

 

“I'm sorry. I'm always  _ crying _ around you lately, and hugging you without permission, and just being a terrible friend,” she sniffles after calming down. Has Y’shtola always smelled like leather-bound books and flowers, and has she always loved that smell? The sensation of hand running through her hair, gently scraping at her scalp is nice, too. Addicting, even. It’s making her lethargic.

 

“Hardly.” The hand that is running through her hair stops and moves away. She nearly whines at the loss, but Y’shtola curls her fingers under her jaw and strokes her cheek with her thumb and she can’t help but lean into her hand as it nudges her chin up so that she can meet her eyes. Giving her a gentle smile, she says, “Did I not say it before? Never apologize for your grief. Neither am I so cruel as to deny a dear friend some deserved comfort.”

 

Dear friend. Dear  _ friend.  _ They are friends and Y’shtola is too amazing, too good for her and this does nothing but prove it because what has she done aside from nearly get Y’shtola killed?

 

_ “Eorzea is a better place, for your presence.” _

 

Those words come back to her, abruptly halting what would likely have turned into a depression spiral. Staring into Y’shtola’s eyes, she tries to find the words to express her gratitude, words better than a mere “thank you.”

 

“I could kiss you.”

 

The thought crosses her mind, and apparently her lips because Y’shtola stiffens in her arms and she takes a sharp, deep breath and the twelve have mercy on her she needs to play that off as a joke but Y'shtola is so close and so entrancing and oh Rhalgr _please_ _someone save her_ _she is ruined she is-_

 

“I would not stop you if you did.”

 

...Oh.

 

Wait.

 

What?

 

Her brain completes its meltdown, leaving her body to act out of instinct. She straightens, slowly, maybe, but she isn’t sure because time doesn’t exist anymore. It’s just her, and Y’shtola, and this  _ thing  _ between them that she hadn’t even known was between them until now and  _ oh  _ does she want to have it, have  _ her. _

 

She kisses her as gently as she has dreamed of, softly enough that Y’shtola can back away at any time, but the hand at her cheek moves to her neck and pulls her closer and after that the only thing that matters is Y’shtola’s lips, Y’shtola’s body pressed against her, and how perfect all of it is.

 

Eventually she pulls away, breathless and burning with something that might be desire but all she can do is lean her forehead against Y’shtola’s and laugh because it’s  _ too much _ .

 

“Does this mean we’re dating now?” she asks with a goofy grin.

 

Y’shtola huffs but she’s smiling and her hands are roaming across her stomach as if she can’t get enough of her. “Yes. I suppose we are.” Leaning away, she kisses her neck and, well, what more do they need to say?


End file.
